


Before I Fall

by Unusual_Raccoon



Series: From the Beginning [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Don't come for me...it's better this way, F/M, Laurel Lance is the Black Canary, Mentor Ted Grant, No Pre-Canon Cheating, Post-Episode: s01e13 "Betrayal", Sara Lance Does Not Exist, Self-Indulgent, Whump, i think..., season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28018341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unusual_Raccoon/pseuds/Unusual_Raccoon
Summary: An alternate take on season 1 episode 13. Instead of revealing his identity to Felicity Smoak, Oliver seeks the assistance of Starling City's other vigilante.
Relationships: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen
Series: From the Beginning [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2129745
Comments: 24
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely self-indulgent, but I thought I would share it with those who are interested too. I was really happy to be writing Earth-1 Laurel Lance as well. This fic is something of a "what if", basically what things might have been like if Laurel had been the Black Canary from the start, and Oliver had never cheated.
> 
> Also, what if Felicity had never been recruited.

Oliver swallowed the grimace of pain, the hot tang of adrenaline helping numb the hurt he felt illuminating his chest. There were still bits of broken glass biting into the green leather of his gear. Peeling back the vice-like grip he had been maintaining on his shoulder, he let out a sigh the warm tide of blood that hurriedly began saturating the canvas of his sleeve in the absence of his hand.

Wincing, he clapped his hand back over his shoulder, gripping tightly far surpassing the point of causing pain, he just prayed the pressure would be enough to stop him bleeding out. Even then, the physical harm was nil in comparison to betrayal he felt at having been shot by his own mother. He liked to think she would’ve fired on any vigilante - seeing as there was more than one occupying Starling City.

Crossing the rooftop of the corporate building he had vaulted to in his haste, he distracted himself by pondering the city’s other guardian angel. The Black Canary… a vigilante who had taken up residence not long after the Queen’s Gambit had gone down, recorded in a handful of grainy surveillance photos and a plethora of articles. The name, which he sort of envied given how lackluster the “hood” was, was a result of a since abandoned habit - a calling card left at each crime scene, a single ebony dyed feather…

The name was catchy, he’d give her that.

They weren’t strangers, more like colleagues really, she’d been at this whole vigilante thing longer than he had. His “work-wife” as Diggle had taken to calling her when she appeared on more than one occasion to lend a hand. Oliver was damn near close to hiring her as his bodyguard, she was lethal...and easy on the eyes too, well from what he could make out of her face from beneath the cover of her wig and mask.

She’d probably laugh at him now, not that he could begrudge her, there was a certain irony to the big bad “hood” trundling across a rooftop because of one lousy flesh wound.

Pausing at the ledge of a building, he groped at his quiver, he was a few arrows short after making his escape from Queen Consolidated, but thankfully he was still in possession of a few grappling arrows. Pulling one free from his quiver, he awkwardly gripped the shaft between his teeth as he hefted up his bow with his injured arm. He could feel more blood spilling between the fingers curled over his shoulder, swallowing the noise of pain as to not drop the arrow still held between his teeth. Laying the arrow against his bow, it took a few attempts to hook the arrow against the bowstring, but eventually Oliver managed it.

A bead of sweat shimmering where it lingered on the tip of his nose, his face scrunched in exertion as he maintained his grip on the bow, a brief flare of pain tingling up his arm. Letting out a breath, he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to fire the damn thing one-handed. Learning archery had been a feat in itself, yet here his skill was rendered useless with one of his hands occupied.

His face felt cold beneath the shadow of his hood. Licking his lips, moving his tongue over a bit of the fletching from his arrow caught in his teeth...his teeth…

Swallowing nervously at the prospect, his arms could handle the draw weight of his bow, he silently prayed his neck could as well. Leaning down towards the bowstring, he cautiously clamped his teeth around the end of the arrow, the stiff feathers ticking his lips. He recalled the damage the unforgiving bowstring had done to his fingers when he first began practicing archery, he hoped his teeth would fare a better fate.

Maintaining his grip on the arrow, the muscles of his jaw bunched tightly as he began pulling back the bowstring. Oliver exhaled a strained grunt through his nose as he felt the tendons of his neck pull taut beneath the effort.

By some stroke of luck, heat tingling down his nape and into his shoulders as he managed to pull the arrow back, the bowstring giving a faint creak as he extended his neck as far back as his body would allow. Adjusting his aim to a distant building, it was almost an effort to release the shot. The muscles of his jaw were cramping and his neck was a little sore as he finally unclenched his grip on the arrow - watching in a hazy delight as the projectile soared through the air, sinking just a little shy of the target, but nonetheless hooking him to the building.

“Not bad…” Oliver remarked quietly, feeling pride despite the oddity of the situation. Rappelling across the wire, he stumbled as he connected with the building, just managing to spare himself a few broken ribs by absorbing the impact with his feet. Scrabbling onto the rooftop, the numbing tingle of pins and needles sparkling up his injured arm.

He needed to do something about that damn bullethole, and soon preferably before he lost any more blood. Rising to his full height, Oliver shook the bothersome flash of stars from his vision as he shuffled across the rooftop. He’d made some headway in his journey, but he was nowhere close to the club.

Feeling a heady rush of relief swarm him as he distantly spotted a familiar silhouette perched on a rooftop, like a bird in a nest. 

_ The Black Canary... _

Maybe she could come to his rescue one more time?

Wincing as he reached back for another grappling arrow, he stilled when he found only one remaining. He’d have to make this shot count. Rolling his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tension on his neck, his palm felt sticky with dried blood where it was curled over his shoulder. The process was just as clumsy, yet simultaneously streamlined as he settled the arrow against his bow.

His shoulder flared with pain in protest as he managed to nock the arrow, aligning it with the bowstring. Letting out one final breath, Oliver quickly leaned in, clamping his teeth down on the end of the bow, pulling with all the strength that remained in him until he heard the wooden limbs of his bow give a faint creak. Aiming at the building, jaw aching and neck straining, he released the shot.

His ego felt impossibly large at hitting his target. Closing the distance, wind rushing past him as he sailed through the air. Oliver cursed beneath his breath as he scrambled up onto the fire escape - he made it, sort of.

Climbing the rickety metal stairs, he let out a sigh of relief to find that shapely silhouette still there, standing atop the roof. The wind blowing the platinum blonde tresses of her wig against the dark leather of her suit.

“You’re in my terrority.” She informed in a singsong voice, it was light and teasing, which was damned refreshing given the nature of their business. It was true, he was on her terf, The Black Canary mostly operated within the Glades. While the Hood tended to keep his hunting to the ritzier districts, where most of the names in his father’s book seemed to be gathered. Still, on occasion, they crossed paths.

“And here I thought I got the drop on you.” Oliver shot back with a labored breath, surprised by his own playfulness, noting the way she had yet to turn around, still keeping a watchful eye on the people below them.

“Heard you coming up the stairs - you sound like an asthmatic chain-smoker.” She quipped, and Oliver laughed, it sound deep and flat when disguised by the crackle of his voice modulator.

Oliver nearly buckled as a gust of wind came to greet them, he felt weak and tired.

“Seriously,” The other vigilante began, “What are you doing here?” She asked, a pleasant almost familiar curiosity in her voice.

He nearly attempted a shrug out of habit, though quickly banished the thought.

“I don’t know,” He began conversationally, “Maybe I missed you?” He said teasingly, pleased by the crescent of her dark smile visible where she turned only slightly to glance at him.

“Don’t get sweet on me now, Hood,” She shot back with a chuckle that sent a shiver down his spine, “I’m sorta spoken for.”

Oliver rumbled a dizzy laugh, it was becoming more and more of a challenge to keep his eyes open, “That’s a shame,” he said breathlessly, “I think we make quite a pair.”

Her laugh faded as she seemed distant then…and sideways, why was she sideways?

It wasn’t until he blinked, pain radiating up his side, that Oliver realized he had collapsed…

“Hood?” He heard her call, distress coloring her voice. Suddenly he was on his back, her warm hands, crosshatched with delicate fishnet gloves, cupping his cheeks. Her pretty face flooding his waning vision.

“What the hell?” He heard her curse, once again struck with a familiarity he couldn’t place his finger on. Her face seemed to drain of color as she finally seemed to take in the state he was in.

“You’re injured.” It wasn’t a question, as much as it was a statement, like Oliver hadn’t known he’d been shot.

“Mhmm…” He hummed belatedly. Giving a drowsy laugh as he felt her swat frustratedly at his chest, it didn’t hurt, though not much did at the moment.

“Lead with that instead of flirting.” She hissed, carefully wedging her hands beneath his weight, much to his surprise she shouldered him with relative ease - who was this woman?

“Hood?” She called, sounding almost frantic, hurriedly shaking his uninjured shoulder until Oliver felt bothered enough to open his bleary eyes. He felt her moving him again, attempting to shoulder his weight, until he felt his feet meet the ground beneath him. His knees locked despite how exhausted he was, one last-ditch effort to keep him from falling over once more.

“Don’t die on me,” She warned, sounding entirely worried, “I like flirting with you, you moron.”

Oliver chuckled, everything felt delayed, as she helped him shuffle back towards the fire escape. His vision waned momentarily.

“Hood?” He heard her call again, she had a wonderful voice, even if she currently sounded like she was underwater. It was dark, unbearably dark and cold, it wasn’t until he tried to take a breath that he realized he was drowning - swallowed up by the ocean, small and insignificant.

“Hood, wake up!” The Canary snapped, the firmness in her voice, managing to pull him back into consciousness if only temporarily.

“Oliver.” He slurred breathlessly, only then realizing that his voice modulator must’ve been damaged, as the voice he spoke in was entirely his own.

“What?” The other vigilante asked, pausing where they leaned against the fire escape, they almost made it down to the street.

“Oliver…” He echoed, licking his lips, though his tongue felt rubbery and dry, “That’s my name...It’s Oliver.”

Despite his state, he could still feel her go stiff against his side, her grip slackening as the realization no doubt set in. He was  _ that _ Oliver, the rich asshole who came back from the dead. He worried that maybe this time, he might not be so lucky to narrowly escape the jaws of death. If he was going to die, he wanted someone to know him, actually know him...

“Don’t drop me.” He pleaded quietly.

“I’m not...I would never-” She cut herself off, her grip tightening where she clutched onto him, pulling him further down the fire escape. Oliver’s vision began to wane once more, just barely reinvigorated by the scuff of concrete beneath their feet. They had made it to the sidewalk.

Oliver lurched as the vigilante urged him onto a black motorcycle, he figured it belonged to her.

“Where are we going?” He asked as she straddled the body of the bike, starting it up and sliding up the kickstand with the heel of her boot.

“Somewhere safe...just hold on.” She cautioned, and to the best of his ability, Oliver wrapped his arms around her, holding on for dear life.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just a precursor for this chapter, given that there is no Sara Lance or any cheating in this fic, Laurel channeled her grief after losing Oliver into being a vigilante.

Everything was hazy, he couldn’t remember much, just flashes, snippets of garbled conversation, pieces to a puzzle he didn’t have a picture of.

Oliver’s head throbbed, as did his shoulder when he finally came to, wincing as attempted to sit up. Pain radiated through him as the events of the night returned to him in waves, he’d been shot...by his mother, and he narrowly escaped, only to be rescued yet again by the mysterious woman in black. His skin felt clammy, shimmering with sweat beneath the woolen blanket that had been draped over him where he laid on a narrow cot...in a room? It didn’t look like a bedroom, more like a closet, if anything. Where the hell was he?

Attempting to sit up once again, Oliver tensed as the door creaked open, his hand instinctively groping for his bow, that was nowhere to be found, at the sight of a figure that was decidedly not the Black Canary.

“Wasn’t expecting you to be up yet.” The man in the doorway remarked, he was simultaneously lean and broad, the scarring on his knuckles was consistent with a fighter...a boxer. So, if the room was any indication, and now his visitor, Oliver quickly pieced together that he wasn’t in a hospital - which was actually relieving, he didn’t think he could manage a cover story that would explain a bullet wound.

“Easy, kid.” The older man assuaged, though Oliver wasn’t quite able to turn off the rather glaring voice in his head that told him he was in danger. Especially with the lack of his hood…

“Where am I?” Oliver growled, grimacing as he attempted to sit up once more, attempting to steady himself with a hand against the way. The blanket melted off of his torso, settling in lap, to reveal bandages coiled around his previously injured shoulder.

“For starters?” The man said as he cautiously stepped closer, it was obvious in the way he moved that he wasn’t intimidated by being around a vigilante.

“You’re safe. Stopped the bleeding, patched you up, the bullet punched clean through you - you’re welcome by the way.” The boxer explained, leaning against the opposite wall from Oliver.

Blinking at the other man, Oliver stiffened as he recalled what the Black Canary had said to him...she promised to take him somewhere safe. 

“I, uh - thank you,” Oliver stammered, while he certainly appreciated the assistance, that still didn’t answer the lingering question of where the Black Canary was. If she brought him here, which Oliver knew she did, hopefully that also meant she was still nearby.

Sliding himself into a seated position, Oliver slung his legs over the edge of the cot. His bare feet met the aged wood of the floor. The leather of his pants were tight on a good day, let alone after all the sweating he’d done recently. Looking around, he didn’t find much, wisps of gauze and soiled bandages decorating the floor. Swinging his foot gently, surprised when he felt his heel meet something that wasn’t the floor. Glancing beneath his cot, Oliver was pleased to discover his bow and quiver.

The other man gave a simple grunt in response, “The hood was pretty banged up, had it dry cleaned.”

Oliver felt his eyes go wide at the thought, feeling himself deflate at the boxer’s grumbly laugh in response.

“You should’ve seen your face.” He murmured with a fond chuckle, “Just kidding...doing what I can to get the blood out.”

Glancing around the small space of the room he was in, he spotted old newspaper clippings framed on the wall, and shabby cardboard boxes of training equipment. The man seemed relatively unfazed by being in the presence of a vigilante, like it was mundane.

“Who are you?” Oliver asked, turning his gaze back to the older man who had since begun sorting through a narrow metal wardrobe.

“Name’s Ted...Ted Grant.” He informed over his shoulder, not that it meant much to Oliver, though the admission was still somewhat comforting. Ted moved quickly for an older guy, lobbing something in Oliver’s direction with his left hand. Oliver tensed in anticipation out of habit as a ball of fabric landed atop the blanket covering his lap.

Unrolling the wad of cotton fabric, Oliver quickly figured out what he’d been given was a shirt, there was a faded lettering printed across the front... _ Wildcat. _

“Hey-” Oliver began, glancing up only to find the small room was now empty. Huh...that was usually his thing.

Pulling the shirt over his head, mindful of his own bandages, Oliver wobbled to his feet, managing to remain upright. Steadying himself against the wall as he found his balance, standing upright, he grimaced at the dizziness he felt. 

Shuffling to the door, he didn’t bother grabbing his bow or quiver, despite being in a new environment, he had a feeling he wouldn’t need it, surprisingly he felt safe. Pulling open the door, Oliver winced at the light that greeted him. He paused, lingering in the doorway, not keen on over exerting himself so soon.

From his spot there, he could make out the quiet murmur of conversation.

“You don’t get it, Ted.” He heard a female voice say...the Black Canary, warmth bloomed in his chest just at the sound of her voice. Oliver knew he had an awful track record when it came to romance, but something about  _ her _ felt right.

“Bullshit,” The rough voice of the old boxer soon followed, “I remember what you were like back then, how reckless you were, how  _ hurt  _ you were - I was there, splinted your fingers, wrapped your sprains, kept you on your feet.”

A silence stretched on, and Oliver felt dread settle in him, they seemed...close. Licking his lips, his ears burned at the thought of having dropped in on some lover’s quarrel.

“I know, I know…” The Canary sighed, “I just…” She trailed off, and despite knowing very little about the woman that had saved his life, Oliver knew what inner turmoil sounded like.

“Hey,” Ted rumbled, “Remember, It’s not about you getting knocked to the mat-”

“-It’s if you get up.” She finished, her voice sounding soft, less troubled. There were a few quiet exhales, sighs perhaps. It was hard to tell. Pushing himself off of the door frame, there was a distant sound of retreating footsteps that encouraged Oliver from his resting spot.

Shuffling further, Oliver rounded the corner of the little hall his room was tucked in, too preoccupied admiring the space which he soon realized was a gym, to prepare himself for colliding with another body.

“Oh, god, what are you doing up?” He heard her hiss, the Black Canary, then her warm hands, uninhibited by the fine mesh of her fishnet gloves, steadying him. Even trying to afford her a fraction of courtesy, Oliver still couldn’t stop from ogling the exposed skin glimpsed now that her jacket was undone. There was a lot of fishnet, and lithe muscle.

“I-uh sorry.” He stammered, lifting his gaze only to realize she had averted hers, a curtain of blonde hair partially obscuring her face. She peeled her hands away from his skin, though silently he wished that she hadn’t.

“It’s fine.” She responded, quickly, clipped, shifting on her feet, like a boxer trying to avoid blows. Despite how clearly she was trying to hide her face, she still risked a worried peek at him, the dark shape of her domino mask still covering most of her face.

“Don’t fall.” She chastised, sounding fond of him in ways he didn’t understand. It made his chest glow with a bashful warmth.

A smile twitching on his lips despite himself, “Might be a little late for that,” Oliver teased, surprised yet pleased all the same when his words earned a look of shock. Her eyes, he’d never noticed the color of them until that moment, those beautiful green eyes…

Oliver shook his head quickly banishing the thought, it wasn’t really a secret that he still had feelings for Laurel, it was kind of hard to jump the hurdle that was the love of his life...still, he knew he was projecting his wants onto the Canary, the warmth of her voice and color of her eyes could all just be a coincidence.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he risked a glance at her, the leather of her pants hugged her thighs and hips snugly. A scuffed black baton dangled from a holster at her hip, a pair of brass knuckles glinted against the other...right, she was with the boxer.

“So, uh,” Oliver began, his hands framing his waist, “You and him?” It was easier for him to be aloof when she was avoiding his gaze, though it was clear the black-clad vigilante read through his attempts at casual discussion.

Oliver heard her scoff at the floor, apparently having taken his meaning.

“Ted and I are just friends - he’s like a father to me.” She elaborated quickly, sounding insulted by the insinuation. The Canary still remained light on her feet, the movement making it difficult not to focus on the subtle sway of her hips in that skin-tight leather.

“I-just, you said you were spoken for.” Oliver murmured, and he could hear her rueful chuckle. That same dizzy feeling he had experienced on the rooftop swirling through him, though this time Oliver was entirely certain the feeling had nothing to do with his wound.

His neck was still a little sore, but he kept his eyes to the ground, his head tilted down, he figured it would be easier for her that way.

“It’s complicated.” The vigilante supplied and now it was Oliver’s turn to let out a laugh. If anything he was entirely sympathetic given his own love life.

“Anyone I would know?” He asked teasingly, not entirely expecting her to respond honestly.

“I was just jokin-” Oliver began instantly, only to be interrupted by his savior speaking simultaneously.

“- It’s You…”

Glancing up in surprise, Oliver wasn’t sure what to make of her response, of course he was flattered, excited, he knew he’d garnered a bit of reputation before the mess with the Gambit...yet, something about the earnest quality spoke to something terrifying to contemplate - history, shared history…

“It’s not that I’m not flattered, I just - I’m confused…” He said breathlessly, his cheeks warm as he tried to shrink from her gaze once more. Oliver could glimpse the nervous tremble of her hands… a part of him desperately wanted to comfort her, but he knew it wasn’t his place to do so.

“Well, let me clear things up for you.” He heard her say, his eyes going wide as saw a swish of hair in his peripheral before that blonde wig landed at his feet, quickly followed by her mask...

Glancing up, his heart hammering where it now resided in his throat, Oliver exhaled a shaky breath at the familiar face staring back at him.

“Laurel…” He croaked, breathless at the sight of her, her dark hair matted with sweat and green eyes smudged with day old eyeliner. Suddenly his attraction to the vigilante he had crossed paths with time and time again made sense to Oliver. Dinah Laurel Lance...He’d never seen anything so beautiful.

“You...you’re the-” He stumbled clumsily over the words, his mind flush with a swarm of questions.

“You’re one too…” Laurel said in return, her voice while as familiar as he remembered, was lined with defensiveness. It was clear she was anticipating some sort of rejection, though why she would expect such from him, Oliver would never understand.

A smile tugged at his lips, the revelation only bridging the feelings he had managed to develop for two women, who happened to be one and the same. He was definitely falling, falling in love with her all over again.

Laurel wheezed a sound of surprise, as he swept her into his arms, lifting her off of her feet - injured shoulder be damned. Her wide green eyes staring down at him in bewilderment, a surprisingly weathered hand cautiously touching his cheek, like the realization that he still cared for her might be some sort of cruel joke. Like it might burn her again.

“Do you-” She stuttered, eyes wet where she stared down at him, “Do you still-”

“I never stopped.” Oliver supplied without hesitation, lowering her back to her feet mere moments before she launched herself at him in a hug. Her smiling lips on his as she kissed him, all those years of wishing and waiting he could come home to her vanishing in an instant.

Oliver rumbled a deep laugh against her welcoming mouth as they toppled to the ground, it seemed now  _ they _ were falling...

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it is, the second chapter. While I really had a great time writing this fic, I might be inclined to write more. Potentially a sequel about them from Laurel's perspective and possibly exploring more of her background in this AU?
> 
> Anyway, if you did enjoy this please don't hesitate to leave a comment, I love to hear what my readers have to say.

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be split into two chapters - i tried writing them both ahead of time...hopefully you find it interesting.
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please don't hesitated to leave a comment, I always love to hear what my readers have to say.


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